


Knights, Books and Dragons, Oh My!

by Gothams_Only_Wolf



Series: Steampunk Powered Fandoms [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Temeraire - Naomi Novik, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Captain (temp) Anderson, Captains Watson and Lestrade, Captains bound to Dragons, Dragon!Donovan, Dragon!Mycroft, Dragon!Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, Multi, Not What It Looks Like, Protective Mycroft, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, cautious Sherlock, does this count as a triple crossover?, little!sherlock, pragmatic Sherlock, sort of cute if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gothams_Only_Wolf/pseuds/Gothams_Only_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dragons rule the skies and Captains forms special bonds with them. One Dragon in particular has yet to find his... This their story. Legends often have humble beginnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knights, Books and Dragons, Oh My!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AuroraDefae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraDefae/gifts).



> For AuroraDefae because that picture she posted was so cute! I have no idea what this is other than that it bit me hard. I think it's a plunny gone wild. I recommend listening to Celtic Woman while reading this, especially You'll Be In My Heart. If you've got an 8-Track, I recommend Keepers of Dragons and Celtic serenade.
> 
> Oh! I had a consult with the lovely Imaginary Golux and her Beta so this should be better.

**circa 1878: Second Anglo-Afghan War; frequent skirmishes with the French across the Channel; Signing of The Berlin Treaty**

Sherlock went through Captains like an addict went through opium. Each Captain thought that they could _handle_ Sherlock as though he were a particularly fractious horse or dog; such was not the case. Dragons had to be respected and beloved to their Captain, not trod upon like so much refuse. They called him head-strong, stubborn beast, skittish, moronic... An entire gamut of curse-words in various languages joined such insults.

This troubled Mycroft to no end as his elder brother had found his Captain by complete mistake when she'd been assigned to Sherlock. But... Back to the topic on hand. The last one had quit when Sherlock had burnt his hand by sheer accident during an experiment. At this point, Sherlock was about ready to give up on ever finding the one person who would understand him.

"Brother, can you not find the proper Captain? I know as a descendant of Smaug that it is difficult to find the one who can take us at our best and worst but this does not-" Mycroft scolded as they lay in Dragon form, his papillae scraping across Sherlock's deep red and black scales in a soothing rhythm.

"I burnt him by _accident_! It's not my fault I cannot control the heat of my fire chamber just yet. It takes years." Years that Sherlock was bound to spend alone if his Captain did not come soon. "You know how they are, Myc, demanding perfection where there is none to be found."

It soured him to most humans and even more Captains. Molly pressed insistently that she would do in a pinch and even longer but Sherlock knew she was not his to take on. Her Dragon would come in good time, as he was well aware of everyone else's Bonds.

"I am sorry, brother dearest. Perhaps when all hope is lost, he or she will come." The slightly hopeful tone made him bury his muzzle against Mycroft's neck.

Mike Stamford had found his Dragon in Lisa. Mycroft had Anthea, but Sherlock simply **_could not_** find his own. It ached in an area most Dragons kept secret: the Heart of a Dragon was only revealed to their Captain. But all of that was about to change with a certain pair of Captains re-assigned from the War out East.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the library in his human form, slouching as he stuck his feet in the air, hidden behind a massive text on Dragon anatomy. His tail thumped irritably as he sensed his older brother in the room with him.

"Sherlock, why did you not stay for the Meet?" Mycroft's disapproving rumble made Sherlock hiss.

"It's obvious that I am to remain alone. Why must you continue to press?" he snaps, looking his brother up and down for signs of Dragon's Bane. The illness had nearly taken his brother from him once and he was forever keen to the smell it emitted. "How is the diet, brother?"

"Fine. Anthea is careful with the cows she feeds me." Mycroft answered stiffly.

"If that is all?" He grumbles as he flicks over the page he's done reading.

"No. You will be down to dinner tonight." With that order, Mycroft left to most likely cuddle with his Captain. A tiny part of Sherlock yearned for one of his own.

Much to his horror he finds the inclination to follow his brother's orders, gliding into the Dragon Hall later that night with light footsteps and curling his tail about his feet as he mantles his wings to look intimidating.

"Sherlock? Please. That Dragon won't give you the time of day. He doesn't have a Captain because he doesn't have a Heart to give." Anderson's sharp words make Sherlock straighten his back and speak the venomous words always ready for the idiot.

"The only reason you're bonded to Donovan is because her Captain is deployed with the Air Unit in France. The second he gets back means that you're out of luck to be flying and fucking in coordination." Sherlock snarls, narrowing his eyes as smoke dissipates from his nostrils with a sharp huff.

"Hate to break it to you lads, but I think the Dragon won that round." The gentle reprimand catches his attention in a way that nothing else has. Who is this person to defend him from Anderson's snide commentary?

"Captain Lestrade! Captain Watson! Sorry you had to hear that, sirs!" Sgt. Bill Murray stood and saluted the two entering the Hall with gusto. Sherlock arched his neck and cocks his head to the side, curious as to what would make Murray jump up in such a manner.

So it is those two who were assigned to the LFA on such short notice and it looked like they had repeated partners; not bound but very well deserving of the title of Captains then. Both had seen the War out East but had been sent back for a reason unknown. Sherlock would get that detail if it killed him.

"Relax, Bill. I didn't save your life for you to jump up needlessly." Captain Watson stated as he sat down with a casual air, the sword strapped to his side mimicked by Captain Lestrade on the other side of the table.

Sgt. Murray slowly retook his seat before launching into gossip common to all Flight Academies. "We've only got the one unbound Dragon. He's pretty good with orders but only if he likes them. He's a descendant of Smaug. His brother's already been bound to Captain Anthea and Captain Molly keeps asking him to settle with her. He's wicked smart but Anderson here is just sour from being rejected more times than her."

"Sherlock is-"

"Enough." Captain Lestrade growled out, his dagger in hand and stabbing next to Anderson's fingers with a thud that startled even Sherlock who is used to catching movements before they are made. "He is a sentient being and words like that can make him Rogue. You want him on the other side? Go on; keep saying that and he might." The steely tone matched sharp movements as the Captain wrenched the battle-hardened blade from the solid table made Anderson fall silent.

Sherlock watched with interest as the Captains chose simple foods as dinner and then decided that he would speak to them together. He ate his own cow, careful to keep the blood to a minimum for the cleaning crew as several of them had to work to keep the Hall clean at all times.

Just as everyone was about to settle in for the night, Sherlock cleared his throat, "If I could speak with Captains Watson and Lestrade?"

"I've got the time. I don't know about Greg though," Captain Watson answered as Captain Lestrade yawned into his cleared plate. They do not appear to be frightened of his voice rumbling from the shadows of the Hall.

"Hey, long connector flights. I'm surprised you're still up, John." Sherlock memorized their first names and the fact that they seemed to consult one another with their choices.

"On the morrow. A clear mind is best with what I would discuss with you," he states as he stretches before nodding to each man. Sherlock slipped out of the Hall with a strangely warm sensation in his chest.

He falls into a restless sort of sleep, knowing that he will need his sharpest wits to face both Captains. Breakfast is quick (barely a half-haunch of bull) before he target practices, growling as the stream of flames burns a deep green as well as blue and nothing else.

It's starting to seem as though his flames will never reach the threshold they're supposed to; it's never a good sign to burn that hot. He digs furrows in the burnt practice grounds with his serrated claws, the earth giving away with a surprising amount of ash. Sherlock sneezes as he shakes his dragonic head free of the paper debris that makes up his former target.

"Sherlock?" the warm tone makes him look down to see both Captains with sandwiches that smell divine even by his standards and he shifts willingly into his much smaller human form. The Captains look down on his mop of curling black hair and then at each other before smiling at him. He knows what they're thinking, _'Isn't he cute?'_

"You know this is temporary." he quips sharply, "My line 'grows up', so to speak, after we bond. Mycroft is a great deal taller now than he was a decade ago thanks to Anthea." Sherlock resented his brother sometimes for having both smarts as well as strength now that Mycroft had found his One. "Where did you get those?"

"Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock's stomach starts to growl right on cue. "How about we take this discussion to the kitchen?"

"She is only at the Academy because I saved her from her husband. He was going to be executed." He can't help but want to impress them; they have not spoken to him as though he is lower than dirt.

"Did you save him?" Captain Watson asks as they turn back the way they'd come.

"No, I ensured it. He was a serial killer. Mr. Hudson insisted on blaming her in order to stick her in an asylum." Sherlock corrected as he lead the way to the kitchens. Mrs. Hudson cooed at him and set him next to her as she retrieved the plate of sandwiches she kept for him when he visited.

"I'm not your housekeeper, luv." she chides with a smile as Sherlock takes his first sandwich triangle and looks up at her with his mouth full. "Swallow that."

"Mrs. Hudson, I am a seven-hundred and thirty-five year old Dragon. I am not a child. I merely look like one," he reiterated gently, shaking his head at the mindset of humans. The Elves from his hatchling days had certainly treated him with more respect than he'd seen in the last three centuries or so. John, Greg and Anthea appeared to be exceptions to the rule.

"... Seven-hundred and thirty-five?" Lestrade's tone was faint and impressed at the same time. "How long have you been here?"

"Around a century. Mycroft was not Bound until he was nearly a thousand," Sherlock says as he polishes off the last sandwich. "If you care to ask, there have been no Captains attempting to bond with me."

"Are you serious? Seven-hundred plus years and not a one?" Watson's cerulean gaze was astonished as it took in his human form.

"Oh, there have been quite a few but only in the past hundred years or so and only because they found out I was related to Smaug," he snorts sourly as Mrs. Hudson places a tea set down and goes back to sewing in her chair, keeping an eye on all three of them.

"I'm here because Greg and I can't bond with a single Dragon. We're literally one step away from becoming paper-pushers because every Dragon we meet doesn't seem to bond with us," John finally admits after several long moments.

"You think that I will accept both of you? Are you mad? There has never been evidence that a Dragon needs more than one Captain," Sherlock quips as he stirs his tea with an interested expression. "Frankly, if I am your last hope... I would not hold out."

"That's how it works with us. There's... something that's telling me we'll work. Dunno what it is, mind you, just that it's there," Greg states quietly, his tawny gaze far more intelligent than most Captains who have tried to convince Sherlock that he is their Dragon. Sherlock wonders when they'd become viable candidates for recognition in the mind-palace.

"Say we attempt this utter madness. Who will ride? Who will direct my fire when it gets too hot? What happens when I have flare-ups? Who will be feeding me? Which of you would bed down with me when my internal furnace banks for the winter? Have you thought about any of that?" He fires off the questions at a rapid pace that would make most human minds spin.

"We've given it some thought,” the wry answer comes from John. "Long time ago when we were still fresh from the Potential telling us we were Dragon Captains. It refused to tell us apart."

"Refused? That is odd. It did not speak with me. It spoke with Mycroft and every other Dragon on the Isles." Sherlock murmured his brows furrowing as he curled his tail around his feet and thought. "Perhaps it disapproved of my habits."

"Habits?" The sharp tone makes him defensive.

"Fire-sage." he stated shortly, absolutely un-ashamed of his former habit. "It causes a Dragon's mind to sharpen to the point where our magic slides into our words. I have been unable to produce a flame less than 3000 degrees Celsius since my habit stopped half a century ago."

"It doesn't hurt?" John asked with a thoughtful expression.

"No. I always practice but as I am still unbound, the flames will not regulate. The lowest my flames have gone is 2000 Celsius." Sherlock sighs, pouring a new cup of tea, dropping in two sugar cubes that Mrs. Hudson knows he puts in but most others are not privy to the information. "Do you want an official ceremony or a private one?" Greg and John looked at each other and nodded in synch.

"Private." Greg murmured. "Just one witness."

"Mycroft and his Captain will do." Sherlock absently corrected. "They are the only ones I trust at the moment aside from Mrs. Hudson."

"Very well. When do you want to attempt it?" John asks as he cards a hand through the sandy locks that were a little longer than regulations allowed.

"A week from now."

* * *

Sherlock was not one for impulsive behavior and he was _not_ nervous as he informed his brother of his impending ceremony.

"Captains Watson and Lestrade have agreed to attempt to bond with me," he croons softly as Mycroft grooms behind his horns, the rough tongue scraping off the soot that lingered after his practice sessions.

"Really? They did not inform me of this fact," the mild reprimand from his brother is expected.

"I gave myself the task. I did not want you scaring them off before we attempted this mad thing. They are bound as Captains and no other Dragon they have met seems to satisfy their own bond. They seemed to think that I am their last hope before being subjected to copious amounts of paperwork and being banned from the sky." Sherlock counters with a furrowed brow. "I set the time, the date and the witnesses."

"Myself and Anthea, I assume?" Myc sounded vaguely entertained.

"I trust no one else save Mrs. Hudson," he huffs as he grooms a particularly dirty patch of Mycroft's scales. They never allow any other Dragon aside from Mummy to groom them.

Spies were everywhere in this War, and when a Dragon was bound, the Captain became a priority. Catch the allegiance of a Captain with a powerful Dragon and you had them as well as a set of Dragons loyal to that Dragon. Sherlock just hoped that the sole secret of the Captains was just their magical bond.

"I hope for your sake that the Captains love Queen and country as much as they project." Mycroft finally rumbles after the moment stretches out to an uncomfortable one.

"Caring is not an advantage." Sherlock quotes softly, pillowing his head on Mycroft's thigh.

"When did that apply?" Myc crooned back, one last swipe of his tongue ensuring that Sherlock muttered his answer truthfully.

"Since I don't have a Captain." He sighs, a low burst of flames coming out of his nostrils as he relaxes fully.

"Oh, Sherlock, you certainly do have a Heart. It's just hiding under all of your blustering bravado." There are moments where his brother manages to find the right words to reassure Sherlock and this is one of them.

"... Love you Myc." he hummed as he fell asleep, feeling secure in the shelter of his brother's wing.

* * *

Sherlock yawned and stretched as he awoke to the smell of freshly-killed cow. Greg was standing next to it, scuffing his boot against the warm earth of Sherlock and Mycroft's shared Den entrance.

"I thought you'd like breakfast." He sniffed at the cow and licked at it to test the hide. It split easily under his papillae and he rumbled as he lapped up the spilt blood.

"... Thank you. Have you broken your own fast?" Usually he doesn't ask such questions but something tells him this is the right way of things. Sherlock tears off a hock and swallows it whole, careful not to gross out the Captain.

"Yes. I've always had a habit of greeting the sun. John sleeps later." The amusement is clear; Greg obviously knows a great deal about his partner.

"If I may Captain Lestrade?" Anthea was escorting Mycroft's cow carefully.

"Of course Captain Panzer." Sherlock blinks in astonishment as he hears Anthea's surname. She never voluntarily gave anything away to strangers. "Care to watch me spar with straw or are you busy, Sherlock?"

"I would like to watch you spar. Anderson boasts that he is the Academy's best swordsman." The slow smirk that appeared on Greg's face intrigued Sherlock so much that he swallowed the rest of his cow in nearly record time. Mycroft blinked sleepily as he was nudged awake by Anthea, having had come from a somewhat classified operation in France.

"Good morning Sherlock." Mycroft usually would not let anyone aside from Anthea (Sherlock's sister in all but blood) and himself into the Den. "Captain Lestrade."

"Mycroft." Greg gives his brother a short bow with his fist over his chest in respect of his elder brother's position.

"Take good care of my sibling." Mycroft rumbles softly, giving Sherlock a near-parental grooming to clean the bits of viscera from Sherlock's inky muzzle.

"I will do my utmost." Greg is entirely serious and that relaxes Mycroft enough into sinking his serrated fangs into the food presented to him.

Sherlock shooed Greg out of the Den, shrinking to his human form to explain. "Mycroft has an... aversion to most species watching him eat."

"If I may ask why?" Captain Lestrade's voice is quiet as he queries Sherlock.

"Dragon's Bane." He growls, hating all mention of the terrible disease.

"That sounds awful." Humans had no idea what it was, of course, and Sherlock was reluctant to share what it did to a Dragon.

"... It can kill us," he admits carefully as they visit the private armory for Greg's practice armor.

"Oh. No wonder no one has heard of it. I will keep this secret." Greg murmurs as he struggles with the clasps.

"Where is your valet?" Sherlock huffs sharply at the thought of an idiot serving either of the competent (at least what he's seen so far) men.

"We usually help each other with our armor. A valet doesn't exactly figure in with a pair like us." The Captain freely admits. "John should be down any moment now."

Sure enough, John Watson is half-in, half-out of his own armor and they fix it until it is precise. If Sherlock had not known any better he would have said that they were twins with the movements they'd made. Swords are belted with an ease that suggests they have seen far more combat than most Captain candidates. He trails after them as they make their way over to the dusty practice yard. Greg steps onto the earth of the field and the various soldiers and support defense stop what they are doing when Captain Lestrade taps Anderson's shoulder.

"I hear you're the best swordsman in the Academy. Would you like to display your talents in a match?" Greg is nothing if not genial, gentle as he speaks; the exact opposite of Anderson's rough tongue and mannerisms.

Anderson sneered as he violently removed Greg's hand from his shoulder with a sharp movement. "Make it a duel and you've got yourself a deal."

"A duel it is. Single-combat or would you like a second?" Greg continues as though Anderson had merely brushed against his hand. John's fingers curled around the handle, the leather of his gloves creaking as he tightened his grip.

They faced off with ten paces, as was proper, before drawing their blades. Greg drew his broadsword with a sharp -sching!- noise as Anderson's rasped out of his inferior scabbard. Sherlock watched as Greg flipped his blade a few times as though to make sure of the weight before he dropped into a stance that Sherlock hasn't seen since Turkey. He placed a hand over John's own hand to sheathe the other Captain's blade before John realized what the bond was doing. Several theories slid into place in the puzzle that was this Potential-matched pair. He discarded three and formulated at least four more within the moment it took for Anderson to get angry over Greg's unusual stance.

Anderson leapt forward with a war-cry which left him open for at least two sword strikes and six close-combat moves. Greg stepped back and blocked the wild swing before hammering against Anderson's shield with a great deal of force. The traditional wooden shield shattered under the Ulfbehrt blade, the Damascus steel ripping through each of Anderson's pitiful defenses. By the time Anderson was flat on his back from the flurry of blows he was heaving in great breaths whilst Greg stood over him with only a sheen of sweat covering his brow.

"Best two out of three?" Greg's good nature did not allow him to impugn the honor of a fellow Captain. Anderson was, however, a cheater of the basest nature and flung a handful of dirt at Captain Lestrade to blind him. Thankfully Captaincy meant gaining magical abilities as well; else Greg would have easily been blinded. "You would throw dirt in a duel?" The cheerful expression became aloof and the gaze predatory as soft ochre glinted golden in the early morning sun. "Again, rapscallion!" He hauled Anderson to his feet and waited for him to retrieve his sword, which had been lost during the first match. "Ten paces!" Lestrade barked out. Anderson scrabbled to obey, the training received at Camp kicking in.

They turned and again the battle was fearsome. Lestrade gave no quarter as he had in the first match, blocking a strike one moment and giving one in the next; sparks flew off of the blades as they scraped and rang in the dusty field. Everyone else had abandoned their mandatory practices to watch Anderson get beaten down from his status as best swordsman. The second Anderson's rear-end hit the ground for a second time, the Ulfbehrt blade sang through the air to stop a hairs-breadth from the man's unprotected throat.

"Do you yield?" Fierce golden eyes glowed from under Lestrade's helmet, locked on Anderson's weaker gaze in such a way that the younger male flinched away.

"I yield me." The near-ritualistic and olden vows makes Sherlock re-think on whether or not they would make a good match. He finds he has much to ruminate on.

* * *

John finds Sherlock on the rooftops of the Command Center, his hands steepled under his chin, fingertips brushing his lips.

"Sherlock? Mycroft said you could be found here." John says, sitting next to him and kicking his feet back and forth over the edge. Sherlock glances over and feels a frisson of shock as he sees John has a black eye.

"What happened to you?" The question is out of his mouth before he understands it himself.

"This? Oh. I got into a scuffle with Captain Carter." John bares his human teeth in an approximation of a snarl.

"Over what, precisely?" John strikes Sherlock as a calm, collected Captain. It's odd to see such a fire in the sapphire eyes.

"Whether or not you were worthy of a Captain or even to be here. I socked him a good one for that... 'Course he gives as good as he gets. He looks much worse, if that helps." The smile turns into a wince as John's facial muscles recognize the pain on the right side of his face.

"He's been saying that for the last three decades. Maybe I should eat him." Sherlock grumbles as he pulls out fully from his mind-palace to converse with his Captain-to-be and that by itself is unusual.

"Eat him?" John's astonishment leaves him amused.

"I am still a Dragon and we're known for eating people. The stereotype has to come from somewhere." He quips dryly, displaying his fangs. John laughs and the sound is sweet, laced with a happiness that Sherlock has known all of three times in his long life.

"Have you eaten anyone?" The curiosity in John's tone drives him to answer.

"Yes. Humans taste awful." Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the mention of swallowing humans whole; he's had a few in his time.

"Even washed?" John scratched his head before asking that particular query.

"Never. I could have gone for a Viking, though, had I really wanted to try. They took baths before it was considered a good thing." He murmurs as he stares blankly over the city of London. "Raided this city quite often before Mycroft and I chose England for our Nesting Site. They left us alone after that. Dragons were sacred to their culture for some reason."

"Oh." The understanding tone makes him speak voluntarily.

"I may have to revisit my vow for not eating humans though. Carter is irksome," Sherlock says with a small smile on his face.

John laughs again and then stops as he looks closer at a bright section of London. "There's a dance down there. Want to go?"

"I don't really do modern dances..." He protests as John gets a mischievous grin on his face while looking at Sherlock.

"Come on. Someone will teach you." John tugs him to the attic roof door and grins. "I promise it'll be fun." They dash out of the Academy after John's changed into what looks like common clothes; Sherlock grabs his violin case just in case the musicians allow him to join in. "What is in that case?"

"My violin," he says as though it's completely natural for a Dragon to play violin.

"Oh. I'm sure you'll fit right in." John tugged a raggedy scarf over Sherlock's head and knocked back the hood. "Perfect. Just let me smudge your face with charcoal and we're all set."

"I can do that myself." With a few quick strokes, Sherlock now looked like one of the many street-rats; he thanks the Valar that his case has been battered over the centuries. They skid through the mental map that Sherlock has and make it to the lively jig. He sets down his case next to the musicians while flicking open the catches. "May I join you?" Sherlock sets his violin under his chin and does a few tuning checks (it's been a while since he last played) with his bow.

"Sure little lad. A ditty or two couldn't hurt ye any." The smile that appears on Sherlock's face before he launches into one of his compositions startles the band into playing along with him. "Well, will you look at tha' little fellow go..." He picks up the speed as he taps his foot, getting lost in the rhythm they've built up. The crowd is blown away as Sherlock imbues his performance with a bit of dance, still playing as he weaves amongst the dancers and common folk like he was born to it. Music always does have a peculiar effect on him when it comes to dancing.

By the time the coppers hear the violin, Sherlock happens to be composing with John tapping against a barrel to provide rhythm; the crowd is long-gone. "Lad, what are you doing out here playing that violin? Did you steal it?"

"Please, like I would bother playing it if it wasn't mine." He segues into a soft melody that pours out sweetly from his bow and fingerings. "As a matter of fact, I was bored at the Academy and I figured a day amongst the common folk would do me some good."

"You? Some street-rat is from the Academy?" Sherlock continues to play though the notes have become sharper and harsher as they're wrung from the violin. "Will you quit that?"

He breathes out propellant and it lights up, the flames burning a brilliant green edged with blue. "I will not." The Officers goggle as John pulls off the blanket to reveal armor underneath and his sword strapped to his side. "I am no street-rat, Officers." Sherlock grins as he plays while stepping into the shadows with his Captain-to-be, offering the stunned men a bow as he vanishes from their sight.

* * *

A few days into their agreement, Sherlock left the Academy entirely. He told no one save Mycroft where he was going; the Potential did not like to be revealed to anyone it did not deem necessary.

It resided in the relic-filled Avalon, pulsating as Sherlock landed as gracefully as possible. Sunlight slanted through stain-glass windows, creating a wash of colors over his wing-scales. He loped up the hillock where the Potential hid when it didn't want to be seen or heard. The public Potential announcements happened annually for a reason; for a sentient piece of magic connected to the earth, it was incredibly private.

"I know you will not speak with me. I understand. But why those men? Why have you assigned them Captains? The ache in my chest has grown. I have nowhere to turn save my Family and I do not want speculations. I want... I would like at least some knowledge of what is to become of them." he says, not looking directly at the glowing magic that could be traced back into the very First Age.

 **Sherlock Holmes.** The resonating voice echoes in both his mind and the surrounding area.

"I thought you didn't speak to me." He let out a stream of steam and smoke as he kept his gaze on the glittering sea.

**That was no mistake.**

"I figured as much, Potential." Sherlock sighed.

**You asked after a pair I deemed Captains?**

"Mayhap." he paced, still in Dragon form as he flared open his wings to ease the strain of the long flight.

**Why they are together? Or why they have deemed you worthy of their gifts?**

"Both, if you don't mind." Shaking out his wings was the work of a moment before he mantled them with a great shuffle of his wing-scales.

 **Gregory and John possess a great deal of kindness.** The voice is wry as it echoes about the vaulted ceilings.

"On that we agree. Anything else you may tell?" Sherlock makes sure that he keeps the magic at the very edge of his vision.

**Why do you keep your gaze from me, son of Smaug?**

"I visit you every other century and you ask me that now?" He stops his pacing and faces the scintillating magic that is so very important. "When you refused to speak to me during my use of fire-sage? When you disapproved of my killing humans? What is it that makes them look at me like I deserve their kindness?!" Sherlock roars the last sentence, turquoise fire searing through the sand and creating glass formations as he snaps his jaw shut. Fire drips down his jaw, hissing as it hits the sand as the slick propellant seeks an outlet. "I am a Dragon! A beast! A terror to this place and yet you send them my way! Why?!" All it earns him is a silence from the Potential. He shifts to his human form and his gaze glazes over. "I am meant to be alone."

**When did you reach that conclusion?**

"Three-hundred and eighty years ago." the rasping reply is the only way he can speak.

**They suit you so well, son of Smaug, more than you will ever know. I sent them to you because you have lost all faith. I did not speak to you because I was searching for the balance you so desperately need. Never have I disapproved of you, Dragon Childe. It seems mortal and immortal alike are plagued by doubts. Trust them, Sherlock Holmes, and I guarantee you will find happiness.**

"Happy? There is no such thing." He states dryly as he shifts forms.

**You asked me why they are so special. It is due to the fact that they will see past every barrier you erect and always, always keep watch over you. They are special because you are, Dragon Childe; simple as that.**

* * *

That week seemed to take forever as he spent most of it with his Captains-to-be as often as possible. Sherlock did as much as he could to occupy the time but somehow found himself outside the Academy holding hands with John Watson (again). He'd wanted to go book shopping but Mycroft was busy with a training Maneuver; his choices had been limited. Sherlock's tail wrapped around his thigh as he pulled on his favorite cloak and tugged on the only set of brown shoes that would fit his feet before he'd dragged John imperiously from the Academy. Of course, a horse being driven by a horrid driver had nearly killed him with the first step and Sherlock'd had to scold the man.

"Watch it! You nearly killed him!" John snapped with a hand on his sword.

"Stupid little-"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and let out a sharp huff of smoke as he growled. "Dragon. Watch where you drive that horse. She's high-strung as it is."

"How'd ya know tha'?"

"She's already stressed from pulling the hackney away from the train station and she's been pulling one for less than six months, judging by the state of her hooves. Driving her past the Academy full of Dragons is just going to make her fly into histrionics. She's a horse. They're sensitive. Idiot." He doesn't even wait for the man to respond as he takes John's hand and walks away with a pleased smile at the murmurs of concern for the horse and how 'smart' and 'sweet' he'd been.

"So, where did you want to go again?" John asked as they walked further from the Academy. "It's been a while since I was in proper London last."

"A bookstore. I wanted a manuscript and the courier dragon informed me that it had been dropped off earlier this morning over breakfast cow." he hummed as he consulted his aerial map of London. "We'll take a right here, a left at the Prancing Pony and a right at Kensington Hall. You're comfortable in pubs, yes? I will be a while. The bookstore clerk will require haggling. It's never pretty. He cheats on his wife with several mistresses who are of an increasingly bad temper as of late."

John shakes his head and murmurs, "How do you know all of that?"

"My mind is one of the sharpest the Dragonkin know of. I am forced to solve petty disputes that go for centuries and if I turn my talents towards humans? Well, your species is rather predictable. The last human dispute I involved myself in resulted in my eating them. Did you know that unwashed Picts taste like rotten liver?" Sherlock makes a face at the faint taste that lingers when he mentions the moment.

His Captain-to-be looked at him for a moment before he cracked up laughing, slapping his thigh to show his mirth. "Oh dear God... Why has no one bothered to _talk_ to you? You're a bloody genius! That is the funniest thing I've heard since I got back. How do you do it?" They continue on the route they've been on, Sherlock beginning to garner strange looks as they slide deeper into London's Underground.

"Simple. You see but you do not observe. For instance, you're magically bound to Greg as Captains. Someone in your lines made a magical pact that has resulted in you two being good friends able to predict each other's movements. When Greg drew his sword for practice, you did the same, save that you were not on the field with Anderson. Therefore, this bond you have has yet to be fully realized. If I am indeed your last resort... The bond will be stronger than even I could predict. That is why I have postponed the ceremony. Knowing your Captain well is the same as living with them," he quips as they reach the turn-off for the more fortunate. "Turn here. Unless you would prefer to gamble?" John swallows and clears his throat with a blush. "No? Greg has chastised you quite enough."

"Greg's just looking out for me. He knows me better than I know myself. You know, I think we will make a great team." comes the reply, John's smile flashing in the slowly brightening light. "Wow. Your short-cuts are amazing. For that matter, so are you."

"... Thank you. Most people do not respond in a positive manner," he admits with a wry grin of his own.

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off." John laughs and shakes his head again; gently squeezing Sherlock's much smaller hand in a gesture of reassurance.

"I would never. Oh, are we here?"

"Kensington Hall is over there. I should not be very long, perhaps enough to have a pint but nothing more," he states as he lets go of John's hand. "I can defend myself from this man. Flames in a bookshop are never wanted." John reluctantly leaves him at the doorstep and heads for the pub.

Sherlock enters the bookshop with an interested expression and throws back his hood, clearing his throat. "Master Bookkeeper."

"Ah. That voice I know well. Master Sherlock." The scruffy stout human makes his way forward from the back of the cramped shop. "What can you tell me now?"

"Three of your seven mistresses have cheated on you with men of a stature above yours. Two of them have spurned your advances because they have become married themselves and the remaining two have sworn themselves to the Convent. Your wife remains unaware of your transgressions," Sherlock murmurs as he wanders the floor, touching books in various states of repair. "You received the manuscript I ordered from Wales, true?"

"Aye. Will you be wanting to haggle me for it?" Bookkeeper sighs as he leans on the counter.

"Perhaps. Though I suspect your daughter will need the money soon. A dowry is a costly thing when marrying into the upper class, no?" he counters easily, knowing that he has brought along enough of his hoard (not his main one, of course) to fund said dowry. The man's daughter was far smarter than Sherlock had expected and he'd told her as much. "However, your daughter is also aware of your... distractions."

"She is?" The shock is something Sherlock savors though he knows it's not polite.

"Mmm. Tell you what, Bookkeeper. I have brought enough along to fund the rest of the dowry." Sherlock hums as he takes down a book of illustrated stories with a thick red cover.

"But what will you ask in return is my question," the man snorts dryly.

"You are sharp. I'll take this book and I want my manuscript delivered straight to the Academy with no fuss. Also, your wife is with child again. It would be wise to nurture this one. A future Captain," he drawled, his Dragonic instincts telling him much. The man's eyes bugged as Sherlock set down a good pile of gold. "I will be back for the one in blue in a month's time."

"God save ye, Master Sherlock." the man breathes as Sherlock exits the shop with a smug expression.

"Oi. Look. It's that prat that comes to visit ol' Bookie every month or so. Where's your brother?" the rowdier set of minor criminals make the grin go even wider.

"I've no need of him. It's merely to make you think twice before being burnt." he snaps as he hugs the book to himself, smoke curling out of his nostrils as he flares a tiny blue flame.

"Get away from him!" John had drawn his sword and was now advancing towards them with an expression that was not to be tested. "Get out of here before I turn you into mewling quims." The blade shone in the suddenly brilliant sunlight, giving his protector an angelic countenance.

"Bejesus!"

"You'll be meeting him if you don't get away from my Dragon." John snarled as he pulled out his dirk as well. They took another look at John's expression before fleeing with a terrified glance over their shoulders. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know we're not bonded." Sherlock shivered softly and John sheathed his weaponry, hugging Sherlock to him with murmured words. He sighed at the warmth and then the strange sensation bloomed again in his chest. Was he bonding to them already? He needed to speak with Mycroft.

"Thank you. I think we need to get back to the Academy." Sherlock allowed John to take his right hand as he shuffled the book into his left arm. He glanced up and grinned, John's serious expression melting away to reveal a bright smile.

"They were so _scared_ of me! Me, mind you. I do know how to use my sword, granted, since I am a Captain and all... But they acted like I was going to tear them into tiny pieces."

"You looked the part." Sherlock informed him wryly with a small smile of his own. "I thought you were a Medical Captain?"

"I had bad days," comes the laughing answer as they walk along the more public streets. That set both of them off into laughter as they hailed a hackney with the Academy insignia on the back.

* * *

Mycroft was pacing when Sherlock glided into their shared den. "Where were you?!"

"Don't you have spies everywhere?" Sherlock snarks as he stretches out his wings into Mycroft's personal space. "John and I went to fetch a manuscript as well as a book."

"I heard there was an incident," comes the disapproving snipe back.

"Myc?" Sherlock was not sure how to broach that topic when it had never occurred before in all of his centuries.

"Did something happen?" the worry in his brother's voice soothed his insecurity. Mycroft had always been there for him.

"No. How do you know your One?"

"There is a warm sensation in your chest. It starts to ache-You have begun already? To whom?" Mycroft's blue-grey eyes widened in his assessment.

"Both of them." he mumbled. If Dragons could blush, Sherlock would be a brilliant pink by now. "Greg this morning and John this afternoon."

"Captain Lestrade was busy with Anderson's pitiful attempt at dueling. You know that Anderson will not quit until his shame has been erased. When did you bond?" the focused question is just like Mycroft.

"I think it's been building. He feeds me every morning at precisely six before he goes through his sword practices. John... John likes me. They've not told me to silence myself and they appear to appreciate my insights," Sherlock says with awe in his tone. "Is it always like this?"

"Yes. Though I suspect that your Captains will be a handful." Mycroft croons as he nuzzles Sherlock, poking his head out as they hear raised voices.

"You're not a Captain so you're not allowed in the Dens." Sgt. Murray was well-meaning but Sherlock nudged him off to the side with a taloned forefoot. "Sherlock?"

"They are my Captains, Sgt. Murray, or they will be soon enough. Let them past." he states evenly, arching his neck spikes and shaking his head with an absent motion.

"Alright. But you're responsible for them." Bill backs off with a nod, both Greg and John stepping through the barrier with no trouble. "Oh."

"Go about your duties, Sgt. Murray." Sherlock murmurs with a smile. "Greg, John. Are you alright?"

"Well, there's this tug in my chest and John's been worried since your scare this afternoon." Greg answers while tapping over his heart with two fingers. "I think we're pre-bonding."

"Agreed. However, do you want this? Can you live the next eight or so centuries without smothering me under a pillow in human form?" He shifts from forefoot to forefoot, embarrassed by how he towers over his Captains. Mycroft shifts and seeks out Anthea, knowing that Sherlock will need to sort this out with them first.

"Sherlock, can you shift for me?" John asks, holding up the large pillows he'd brought with him and devoid of the armor that marks them as Dragon Destined. Greg is the same save that his tunic is a shade of metallic blue that matches Sherlock's eyes somewhat. He shifted into the bare-footed boy that they are familiar with, waiting for them to settle into the corner of the den made for them. He crawls on top of the fluffy duvet and settles at the end of the bed facing where they are on the four-poster lit with oil lamps.

"Now, what has you so bothered?" Greg hums as he spots Sherlock keeping his distance. "None of that." He's hauled up and set between the pair with a gentleness that he has no knowledge of ever receiving from anyone but Mycroft. "Well?"

"I am... abrasive. I had to be when I was younger to keep away the dishonorable Captains who would have ridden me into the ground without a care for anything else but war. Mycroft got good at picking out the Captains that would take suggestions from their Dragon and we allied ourselves with them out of defense. We'd been drifting from one Captain to the next when Anthea was forcibly assigned to me in an effort to have someone Bound to either of us. My line is powerful and we are considered loyal to our Captains unto death. I'm sure you've heard the rumors by now?" he recites softly, reaching back into his earlier centuries with a reluctance that is quite visible.

"How you only follow orders if they're properly co-assigned to your code? How you nose-dive with in-experienced riders so that they scream... I've heard quite a few." John chuckled as he hesitantly carded his fingers through Sherlock's curls, taking care not to tangle them. Greg also slid his calloused fingers in, the feeling welcome against his scalp. He couldn't remember the last time Mycroft had indulged him in such a hatchling manner. Sherlock rumbled softly, his Heart glowing brighter in his chest as he was warmed by their actions. "Is that..."

"My Heart." the answer tumbled from his lips and he flushed a deep pink.

"Good thing the ceremony's tomorrow?" Greg murmurs before he cracks a yawn that's contagious and has them all asleep within moments of one another.

* * *

The morning of the ceremony dawns bright and chilly. Sherlock protests the covers being pulled off of him until he realizes that his two Captains are no longer with him.

"Up, brother. The ceremony is in half an hour. No you may not wear the sheet." Mycroft's tone is clipped but Sherlock can feel under it and he knows that his brother is worried over his future.

"I will be perfectly fine. I do have another form that is required for the ceremony." Sherlock yawns loudly while shifting and breathes a little bit of fire into the air to heat up the nippy den. "Please do not be insufferable because I am about to bond."

"As if I would ruin your bonding." Mycroft murmurs as he takes Sherlock's comb and waves it. "Come now. Shift." He grumbles as he shrinks down to the human form he has indulged in for several days. The run-through of the comb's teeth through his unruly curls has Sherlock sighing happily. "I am proud of you."

"Is that so?" he asks, the privacy of the Den allowing him to be less abrasive towards his brother.

"I was beginning to worry." For Mycroft to admit such, even in their Den, meant that he was telling the truth. "Mummy did not take half as long as we have to find our Captains.

"You know as well as I do that Father is to blame. Smaug took millennia to find his Captain." He sighs as he stretches in human form as well.

"Indeed. You are as presentable as I can make you in the short amount of time we have." Sherlock took in his appearance before he willed the tie away. "Sherlock-"

"No. I will be comfortable for my ceremony." Mycroft sighs as he pinches the bridge of his nose and mouths, 'I am not allowed to kill my baby brother,' repeatedly. "Think of it this way, you will not have to work as hard to keep an eye on me." A slate-blue eye peers at him from behind Mycroft's slender fingers before his brother nods shortly.

"Will you at least put on shoes?" Sherlock merely raises his eyebrow.

"There is a reason it is private, Mycroft. You know I cannot stand anyone else," he sighs as he buries his toes into the rich loam covering their Den floor, ignoring the glittering hoard in the background for now. "What did you give Anthea as a Bonding gift?"

"Amber." Sherlock crooned to himself as he shifted again, this time whispering over his stones in Dragonic to weave spells into the gifts he was making. "You have made your decision?"

"I know my Captains well," he states with reserve.

They step out of the den and into the inner meadow that only witnessed ceremonies such as these. Mycroft was the officiator as both John and Greg stood in full regalia. Sherlock allowed himself to be lead forward to the Stone of the Heart by Anthea. He kept his head bowed out of respect to the ancient relic.

"Sherlock, do you so swear to retain John Watson as your Captain for as long the Heart shall let you?"

"As it is said, so it must be sworn," he answers properly, having memorized the words for centuries.

"Sherlock, do you so swear to retain Gregory Lestrade as your Captain for as long as the Heart shall let you?"

"As it is said, so it must be sworn."

"Please reveal your Heart." The rumble signals that Mycroft has shifted into Dragon form to speak the last line.

Sherlock exhales as he releases his hold on the human form, reaching for his chest-plate that hid the Heart most swore he did not have; Greg and John both gasp as it is exposed to the air. Sherlock's breaths are deep, the rise and fall of his chest revealing the scintillating light that he's kept hidden for so long. The warm sensation that had built since he'd asked for the extra week bloomed into a brilliant crest.

It burnt itself into the breast-plates of his Captains before he knelt in front of them with no fear. John and Greg reached for his Heart at the same time, their hands intertwined carefully. The achingly familiar sensation of being embraced is the last thing he remembers before his eyes slide closed.

* * *

Glowing eyes swirling with sapphire, hazel and amber snap open instantaneously as Sherlock awakens at the same time his Captains do.

**Sherlock?**

_Greg._ he purrs softly, content to remain where he is at the moment.

**Sherlock, I think it worked. We're bonded now. But what about...**

**_Right here._** The sound of John's voice soothes some part of him that he hadn't realized was tense before-hand. **_What, did you think I wasn't bonded right along with you? We reached into Sherlock's Heart together._**

 _I... This is..._ For the first time in centuries, Sherlock's mind cannot come up with words for the situation but his happiness and frustration appear to get through quite fine on their own.

 **Oh, Sherlock.** The understanding tone made him sigh in relief.

 ** _Y'know, I think you have to take back the statement that this is madness. It worked, didn't it?_** John teases lightly, the mental brush of affection making Sherlock's physical body going limp. **_Real world is invading soon. Do you think Mycroft and Anthea have a telepathic bond?_**

 _I doubt it._ Sherlock quips as he takes in the fact that it's night-time in the meadow. _It appears that we remained in the field in which we swore to one another._

"Did they just leave us-Wow. That's how you fix it." Greg showed them how speaking mentally was far different than speaking out loud. "Bloody hell, Sherlock! You grew!" Sherlock looks down at his frame and realizes that he now towers over his Captains in human form. He blinks rapidly before he stands, his tail helping him balance as he stretches each leg with care under the moonlight.

"I have come short to Mycroft by two measly centimeters." he rumbles before realizing that more of his Dragon voice had followed him into his human form.

"Sherlock, you're gorgeous." John breathed as he reached a hand up to brush a thumb across Sherlock's cheekbone. He appeared to have inherited his Father's sharp angles and his Mother's coloring.

"Thank you. I have been told I was 'cute' by the majority of the Captains that deigned to notice me."

"Not any-Nevermind." Sherlock cocked his head to the side as he spots his Bonding gifts wrapped in a printed wallpaper and twine. "That is cute." Greg laughs before he spots the gifts. "Are those for us?"

"Yes. I made them shortly before the ceremony as I was quite sure my magic would be drained for some time." He hands them both off at the same time, schooling his face neutral even as his apprehension unfurled inside. "Do you like them?" Sherlock had made his Captains something that they would use daily if not forever; a scabbard.

John's was made of black leather laced with the stones that Sherlock thought suited him burned into it with magic and nigh impregnable to removal. The pattern was a whimsical one (vines) that formed Runes of protection, adoration and hope. The bloodstone and amethyst twined beautifully in the setting they'd been given. Greg's was similar but different; his scabbard was also black leather, though the stones (adventurine and amethyst) varied slightly. The Runes were protection, adoration and trust, twining on the leather in a flashing pattern of wings.

He found himself the object of an embrace as they looked up with happy smiles. Unbuckling their old scabbards took the work of seconds before they were wearing their gifts proudly. They presented Sherlock with just one package, wrapped in brown paper and twine. Snapping the twine with his new strength felt good; he peeled off the paper with an excitement he usually reserved for experiments and flying. Out fell clothing that suited his adult form to a T. An aubergine shirt with buttons, slacks, shoes (he made a face at them) accompanied by socks. Sherlock just used his magic to put them on, not bothering to do anything other than remove his childish clothing that no longer fit with a snap of his fingers. Yet within the package there was a smaller one, though its weight also indicated clothing items.

"Since you wouldn't fit anything, including your cloak." John offered quietly as Sherlock pulled out a black trenchcoat with a deep sapphire scarf. He puts these on manually, tying the scarf into a simple knot before giving them the spin he knew they would eventually ask of him.

"You could wear just about anything and still make it look good." Greg complained, though the light in his eyes and the warmth down the bond negated any negative association.

"Shall we show them that two Captains and a Dragon is a partnership that cannot be beaten?" he asks smugly, taking the offered hands with a brilliant smile. Greg and John laughed but allowed him to lead them back to the Academy with a predatory sway to his steps. They exchanged a glance behind Sherlock's back. Yes, London's Flight Academy had definitely been the best transfer for them.

**Author's Note:**

> Of course they have adventures and battle Dragon!Moran and Captain Moriarty. But it seemed like it's a good place to hang this Muse up for now. Comment! Loved, hated, emotional range of a teaspoon with you? 
> 
> Con-crit is appreciated. I know this is a bit fast. Well, hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> Toodles!


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